


Every Little Thing You Do is Magic

by feistymuffin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Derek and Stiles are both failures at talking and feelings, M/M, Magic Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistymuffin/pseuds/feistymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A false alarm in Beacon Hills brings Stiles' talents to light to the pack, with mixed reviews. Stiles didn't even know that they didn't know.</p><p>Awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stiles

The night lies in wait just beyond the dark curtains. Stiles tries to curl up, punching the pillow into a proper headrest for his new position--the seventh of the hour. The restlessness he feels bone-deep is to blame for why he's still awake at this god awful hour, he's certain. Hot tea and a lucid chant before bed, Stiles' usual cure for insomnia, failed him spectacularly. He lies awake in bed and feels the footsteps of his pack on the forest floor. 

He's completely present to the happenings outside. Stiles is with the pack as much as he was told to stay home, which is one hundred percent what did happen. 

When Derek howls he gets the tug in his gut, telling him to join the run. It's not the compelling consumption of what the wolves feel, Stiles logically knows. If he chose to ignore it, he could without a problem. It wouldn't cause him physical pain to disobey like it does them. It doesn't stop him from being bitter that the reason he's left behind is purely by choice. 

Everyone's but his.

He feels it like an ache, the thumping blood in their bodies like a subtle wave over his own--a mimic of their vibrance. A sad replica. Stiles closes his eyes and sees flashes of what they see. Erica bolts up on a decaying fallen tree, high on an adrenaline rush. She somersaults in the air before landing gracefully. Isaac nips at Scott's heels as they run, encouraging the playful growl when it bursts out of his best friend. The images are similar to a stop-motion movie--you can see the gaps if you focus.

Deaton describes the bond of a druid emissary as one unlike any other. He warns Stiles beforehand of the physical and mental effects on pack nights, how in time he will have similar pulls and pushes from the moon. Since he's not a werwolf, it expresses the Pull in a different way. 

Dr. Deaton tells Stiles about magic. 

The Pull isn't some sudden gift-giving in the form of magic, he's explicitly told. Magic is a blood power, just like werewolves and kanimas and any other creature that walks the world. Stiles was going to be an emissary from the moment he was created, before he was even born.

Usually, the pack nights are when Stiles trains with Deaton. They're the best time due to the heightened feelings from the pack. It's about five times worse, and five times more exciting, wielding magic on pack nights. Even worse on full moon pack nights. 

Tonight, Deaton's gone and Stiles is awake, and it only now occurs to him that the role of an emissary is not the one he originally assumed it was. He thought, "I can take care of myself finally, no one will have to worry about me. I'll be able to help." What it actually is is a lot of training, a lot of learning, a lot of lore, and very, very little time with the pack.

After Lydia saved Jackson, a lot of things changed. Derek started looking at Stiles differently, which is pretty rude since he totally contributed to the whole saving Jackson thing, and he's completely on point with his werewolf knowledge mojo. 

Lydia had a hard time adjusting to the abnormality; she briskly told them she wanted to know when things were happening, but otherwise wanted little to do with pack stuff. Once Jackson started coming to pack nights, she was less okay with the idea of selective ignorance. One day at school after one such night, she was looking bitter and put-out, so Stiles figured it was as good a time as any to mention (platonically, he knows the lost cause that is his love for Lydia. True love saved Jackson, and Stiles has seen enough Disney to know that's a one-way trip) that on nights she didn't participate, Allison studied on Derek's newly built back deck. (The pack had actually built it. Who knew Derek went to school and completed a carpenter apprenticeship?) Stiles did too, for all that it mattered. A week after Lydia integrated, Stiles got pulled out for druid training.

Abruptly, Stiles jerks upright as he feels a hard twinge in his gut. Something's wrong, he knows. His fears are confirmed a moment later when Scott's short howl tears through the seeming quiet of the night. It's loud enough that Stiles physically hears it, not just mentally. He closes his eyes a second before he overreacts, and the flickering images tell him what he needs to know. Boyd bit Isaac just this side of too hard, and separated his knee joint. Scott was the first one to let loose at the immediate pain of another pack member, but Derek knew before they did that it was a simple accident, and one sharp bark quieted them all. Stiles lies back in bed, his heart still palpitating but at least knowing there is no danger.

With a sigh, he leans over to pull from his backpack his lexicon, something Deaton explained as the "Good Magic for Dummies" from beginner's level to mastery, and his _luhrienn_ , his personal magic journal. Considering the size of it--only seven by nine inches, about 200 pages worth--he was worried he would instantly fill it. When he said this aloud, Deaton's smile was amused. 

"Books have a way of knowing what we need more than we do," he said cryptically, like that's even an answer. "Magic even more so." 

Stiles has yet to fill it. He's written gibberish, his feelings about the pack, recorded incidents with magic that he needs to avoid, tough areas for further study, every spell he's learned so far, in order, and he even numbered the pages as he used them. So far he's up to page 237. He's gobsmacked when he counts them as he writes, and over again. He can still find every page, every spell he's written, every fact on the critters that go bump in the night. When Stiles showed him, Deaton smiled a small smile at his enthralment.

"If you like this, you're going to absolutely adore runeweaving," Deaton mused. Just the sound of the word made Stiles salivate.

Rune book in hand, Stiles settles back and decides to study the introductory customs of goblins. A few sentences in he's hoping he never puts the knowledge to use. 

 

Friday at school, just as the bell rings for sweet freedom, Stiles hears Scott's phone begin buzzing with an incoming call. Their teacher, Mr. Cochrane, eyes Scott nastily as he answers it while he packs his books away, which is when Stiles hurries forward to ask a question about the homework he finished two days ago. Mr. Cochrane indulges him, and the second Scott's ready, he blurts, "Thanks so much, I think I got it now," shoves everything in his hands in his backpack, and bolts after Scott.

"Dude," Stiles says, once they're in the Jeep, "who was that and why did they call during school?"

"It was Derek," Scott says, a hint of confusion in his voice. "He said, verbatim, 'Pack meeting now, no exclusions' and hung up."

"Excellent SAT word use," Stiles praises--Scott looks very pleased with himself--and then follows up with, "Isn't there a meet tomorrow afternoon?" 

Scott shrugs. "Yeah. Maybe something came up?"

Frowning, Stiles starts the ignition. "Shouldn't be serious, I'd have felt it." He's certain he would have. Deaton told him once his training began, the pack land borders would be almost like walls to him, connected to him. He'd know the second anything got in their territory with above-average abilities. Anything non-human was like a beacon to him.

Scott looks at him weirdly, like he just changed into another animal in front of his eyes. "What do you mean, you'd have felt it? Why would you feel it?" 

"Emissary, duh," Stiles says. "One of my main job descriptions is keeping this shit--by which I mean the hellmouth we live on--on lock. Deaton says if anything crosses our territory border, I'll know."

Scott shakes his head, as if to dispel a bad thought. "Right," he says, his voice odd, "emissary. You're the pack emissary. That's so weird."

"The only weird thing around here is you," Stiles mutters, stung. Scott forgot? Stiles' most life-changing thing to happen to him--him! Completely one hundred percent just Stiles!--and Scott totally forgot. Like whatever, this happens often. 

Scott doesn't say anything else, apparently sensing Stiles' black mood. Probably best, Stiles thinks dully. The less he thinks about it, the better. 

 

At Derek's, they park alongside the garden fence, in no hurry due to the lack of danger. Erica, current lendee of Derek's Camaro, beat them there. She grins, elbows Scott and leads the way into the finished home. Derek's first order of business for the pack, once Jackson fully initiated with a bit of heel-digging and foot-dragging, was the renewal of the pack home. Stiles maintains it was the best thing Derek ever did for them, and himself. 

Stiles smooths his hands on the banister--handmade by Derek--and follows as he hears Jackson pull up behind them. He waves, but doesn't stop. 

Derek's sitting in the living room, sprawled in the armchair that he claims isn't for dramatic effect. Stiles knows better, though. Boyd and Isaac are already there, having empty slots for the last period of the day in school. Stiles takes the floor by Erica, which apparently is an open invitation to start playing with his hair. He lets her. It doesn't bother him. 

A moment later, Jackson and Lydia stroll in and claim the love seat opposite Derek. The alpha doesn't seem ready to divulge yet, so Stiles tries to pick out where Allison is. The humans are the hardest to find, having the weakest links to the pack and the moon itself, but he focuses, and after a moment gets a brief two-image flicker of the gravel road turn-off to Derek's house.

"Allison's up the road," he says to no one in particular, "should be here in two minutes."

By the lack of surprise on most of their faces, they knew that. But their faces quickly morph into disbelief. Derek asks sharply, "How do you know that?" 

Despite himself, Stiles bristles. Did everyone forget he's the emissary? The pack emissary? Literally, druid for the pack. Part of the pack. Druid. How does no one retain this information? 

Instead of giving a mature, adult answer, Stiles spits out sarcastically, "Magic." 

Derek's face hardens, and the room's atmosphere changes entirely. The wolves are recoiling, just slightly, from their alpha. Lydia looks confused but not overly so. She's picked up on the difference in the room, too. 

Stiles stays silent, confused by Derek's sudden hostility. The hell is his problem? Just as Derek opens his mouth to say something, Allison comes over the threshold, quickly moving to Scott's side. With everyone present, Derek has no choice but to address the issue he called them for, and ignore Stiles. 

"There's a mage somewhere in Beacon Hills." The very knowledge that there's an uncontained magic user in their territory is definitely cause for alarm. How did they get in? Stiles is sure he would have sensed them. Deaton promised it was a natural link, nothing that needed to be bolstered or trained first, though later training would be ideal, for more strength and specificity for tracking, should someone breach. 

"Who?" Boyd asks. 

Derek stiffens visibly. It evidently costs him a lot to say, "I don't know." 

"Can we track them?" Erica asks, looking excited. She's the best at tracking. She loves it. But Stiles could answer this one, even before Derek grits out, "No." Erica's face falls. 

Stiles levels a look at Derek, sees the growing uncertainty there, decides he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all. Derek's the alpha, and if he's not sure, no one is. 

"Not to undermine you or your massive suspicious nature," Stiles begins--and Derek's face became even less impressed, awesome-- "but how do you know there's a witch in Beacon Hills if you can't smell or track them, and I know for a fact that no superhumans or beasties crossed the borders in the last month?"

Derek bristles, staring at Stiles first with confusion, and then with, ah yes, suspicion. How Stiles missed that look. Not. "How do _you_ know that?" It's asked with a new intensity, but has the same undercurrent as the first time Derek asked it. 

Distrust. 

Not willing to think about that, at all, ever, Stiles sighs. "Does anybody here know what the hell an emissary even does?" 

Isaac shares a glance with Boyd, then says, "Human link to the pack, right? Some kind of tie to people and the regular world."

If only. "Partly, yes," Stiles says, "and...?"

And that, yes, right there. Stiles wants a picture of everybody's face right now. Because they all look completely dumbfounded. Even Derek. Outstanding. 

"There's more?" Jackson asks, like the thought of giving Stiles responsibility is ludicrous. Stiles refrains from catching his shoelaces on fire, only due to the fact that Derek and this house have had enough fire, forever and ever. 

"Yes, there's more," Stiles says, trying his hardest not to sneer. "Deaton thinks I'm more than a regular human emissary because of my... spark, I guess, that's what he calls it, my spark, he says it acted like a catalyst and now because of it, I can take on full druid duties and still be awesome and non-lame and pack-protecting, and stuff." The explanation Deaton gave was so, so much better. Stiles feels like he sold himself short. 

"So you--" Allison begins, but Stiles finishes.

"Can monitor pack boundaries, completely, from anywhere, at all times. As soon as something tap dances over or on the line, I've got it. And pack, too. Speaking of, Boyd, you almost scared the shit out of me when you bit Isaac. Be careful, dude, seriously."

And now everyone is staring at him. He waits, and still no one says anything. "Okay, so, I'm usually phenomenal at filling silence but if someone wants to contribute a bit, that'd be..." He trails off expectantly. No one speaks. 

Slightly desperate now, he says, "Didn't anyone get the 'Stiles is a druid thing now' message?"

"Yes," Derek says, and Stiles is so relieved for like five seconds, but then he talks again. "We were told there was a new emissary, and it was you, and Deaton was going to teach you some things. There was no mention of... anything else." The way he says 'anything else' makes Stiles feel dirty, in the not fun way.

If no one knew, then they certainly didn't know he has a backseat on every pack run, every pack meeting, that he saw and felt what happened to Isaac... 

Oh. Okay, so they knew literally nothing about their packmate/druid. Such a lack of communication. Okay. 

The uneasiness creeps upon Stiles, more by the second, the longer everyone goes without comment. Wasn't this good news? Better security systems, woo?

"So, you've felt it when we run?" Boyd asks, frowning. 

Eager to have someone speak, Stiles nods quickly. "Yes, and if I focus I can get images, too. Through everyone's eyes. It kind of comes in like a collection of photographs, and I think my mind just filters it into a complete image. I think? I mean, there's no real science to it, obviously, but the mind can't process that many images at once, so they mould into one and come in flickers instead of solid video, you know? I think it's a lot easier to absorb."

Boyd's face tells him that he did not want an answer that long, at all.

Derek's voice is hard when he asks, "Is there anything else we should know?"

Stiles swallows. "Um. I do magic? Not like birthday party, but not like the witches Deaton warned us about. He calls it rigiru which is supposed to mean 'knowledge' in some bastardized old magic language, but there's four different kinds of specialization so, and the basic is rigiru and it covers them all, and then there's asbel which is like the kind of magic that he says is mostly for enchanting, and then--"

Derek interrupts, "Stiles," and then when he's stopped talking, continues, "are you telling me that you are the mage I've sensed the magic of?" 

Stiles pauses, thinks about it. Without any border breaches, there's no other option than to say, yes, he probably is. He nods. "Yeah, probably. Since Deaton is gone this week, his blockers are, too. I was home on Tuesday, and he gave me chants to practice after school, so honestly my magic has probably been leaking more than it should."

Before Derek can respond, Scott blurts out, "Dude, you can do magic," awe in his voice. 

Stiles bursts out laughing. "Hell yeah I can," he says smugly, and fistbumps Scott when he extends his fist.

And just like that, Stiles can feel the heavy mood lightening as the tension breaks. Erica's grin is blinding when she catches his eye. Jackson is trying to look disinterested but can't completely manage it. Lydia, Stiles is sure, is trying her best to not be narrow-minded, to be logical. Logically, if such a thing as unbelievable as werewolves exist, then presumably other previously unbelievable things are too. But he can see she's just this side of overwhelmed. Allison doesn't look surprised at all, though wary, and Boyd and Isaac look a mix of curious and cautious. After a moment, Stiles looks at Derek, who he knows for some reason isn't happy with this development. His bonds with the pack are telling him this, his bond with the alpha. But on a human level, his intuition tells him the entire time they've been talking about magic or the presence of a magic user, Derek has not been comfortable. 

Derek seems to come to some decision, and distinctly straightens in his chair. Stiles watches as he puts on a careful face, very careful. Just the right amounts of relief that there's no threat, and the stoic happiness that Derek usually expresses when they're all content and together. Stiles sees the falsity of it, and knows it's because of him. And he doesn't know why.

They watch a movie and then all go to a diner in town, sharing pizza and loud laughter, and Derek's face slowly fades from fake to real enjoyment, real relief. But every time he sees Stiles, hears him, he gets another pang of _threatdangerwarningwarning_ and incredibly, fear. Stiles feels it across their bond, a preternatural string he can visualize between them--between them all--when he focuses, a shimmering line, an inexplicably bright orange bond. All the coloured cords that Deaton taught him to pick out carry emotions and intent with them. (Deaton likes to think that the colours are strictly psychological--associate colours to define them more easily to each person, humans' entire lives are defined by colour, et cetera. But Stiles knows it's something deeper than that, something on another level that humans haven't gotten to, aren't enlightened enough. Stiles thinks, tangentially, about the Soul Forge in Asgard, Thor's home world.) The stronger the bond, the better the connection. Derek is practically blaring his discomfort whenever he catches notice of Stiles, despite the state of their relationship bond. Stiles suspects its vibrancy is due to his feelings, but isn't about to verify his theory by bringing it up. 

The bond between Stiles and Derek sits loose, hangs almost lifeless between them. It represents their emotional closeness pretty well, though. There have scarcely been any situations where Stiles felt any less than unwanted and under-appreciated while in Derek's company. 

His and Scott's bond, however, is a dazzling purple string, stretched tight and thick between them, guiding he and his best friend together. His bonds with the rest of the pack are varying degrees of moderate. No vibrant colours like the first two, but nothing dull. The strongest of them is strangely Erica, shining a deep green. The weakest string is Jackson, which Stiles understands, but even Jackson's isn't weaker than Derek's. Blearily, he blinks his eyes and dispels the visualized bonds he hadn't entirely meant to call upon, and after a moment they dissipate, leaving the diner string-free.

Scott seems to read Derek's mood, and he and Allison give Stiles their undivided attention. Allison has always been sort of far away from Stiles, in a way, just because he really only knows her factually. He takes some time between bites of pizza to get to know her a bit. He pretends it isn't a distraction from Derek's gaze, which he feels between his shoulder blades. 

Allison and Scott ask him extensively about magic, which Stiles thinks is part of Derek's mood. The topic doesn't seem to want to go away. He tries to convey the stupidity of it, the tediousness, how he's only gotten so far in the three months he's been seriously training beyond the year of theory and studying he did, but the theory of it is incredible. He tries teaching them about the elements, at their core levels, tries describing how water feels when you try to pick it up, the shivers he gets when he has a really good chant, like the spark inside him can't wait to get out and set itself loose on the world. Stiles talks about magic until the entire booth is silent and he's being watched by all of them as he pens out the circle of Fith on a napkin, which is used for summons and represents the four specializations of magic; _asbel, tviikla, yurus, okjojn_ and all internal magic, _rigiru_. He explains that while he's got it all down in theory, the most he can really do right now that isn't ridiculous to do in a diner is make the coffee in Derek's cup boil. 

That doesn't visibly improve Derek's mood, and he doesn't touch his coffee again either.

After the bill comes, Derek's tension mounts, strong enough that the pack starts to sense it. Stiles can read that loud and clear: Stiles is not welcome to stay the night. Sometimes, after pack nights, the pack stays at Derek's and cuddle puddles. Tonight might be such a one, but Stiles is evidently not allowed to join. Honestly, he's probably saving himself the hassle of Jackson and Boyd's feet in his face while he tries to sleep, but he still feels left out. 

"Well, I hate to magic, eat and run, but I've got an early morning tomorrow. Fishing with Dad." Stiles tries to sound put out, but he's excited to spend some time with his dad. Deaton gave him permission to spill the beans about his druidness. Though, Stiles doesn't want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with him while he does it. 

"There's a meet tomorrow," Derek seems reluctant to remind him.

There'll be plenty of time to get back from the lake for the meeting the next afternoon. "I can't make it, sorry," he says, and watches every werewolf react slightly to the lie. Stiles holds Derek's gaze, and Stiles is almost positive that his face doesn't look like he's thinking nice thoughts. If he's expecting to get a reaction, some kind of confession as to why Derek's treating Stiles like a pariah, he is disappointed. 

"A shame," Derek offers after a moment. Stiles can't detect anything in the tone, but he must give away something, because Isaac looks at Derek like he's personally offended his ancestors. Even Boyd levels a dirty look at him. 

Stiles doesn't say anything else, tossing a short goodbye out the open window as he pulls out of the parking lot and drives off. He concentrates very, very hard on the way home so he doesn't melt the steering wheel under his hands. 

In his bedroom, Stiles throws down his backpack almost as hard as he wants to punch Derek in the face. It hits the bed and bounces off sideways, scattering his stuff everywhere. He stares at the wreckage and seethes, and then slowly sits, counting backwards from thirty, and he's calm by the time he hits six. He gets up and tidies his school things, puts what he doesn't need back into his school bag.

His dad gets in just as he's writing the summary of his history paper. Stiles closes his laptop after saving, discarding his clothes to slump into bed in just his boxers and socks. His dad pokes his head in as Stiles snuggles up. 

The sheriff sees his son in bed, lets the surprise show in his face. "Early night?" he asks slowly. 

Stiles makes a show of checking his naked wrist. "It's hardly early. You're late by at least thirty minutes." But it's still only ten o'clock. Stiles doesn't go to bed until the sun starts thinking about waking up, usually. 

John narrows his eyes, distrust rampant, but only says, "Sleep tight. We're up early tomorrow."

Stiles nods, heaves out a yawn and says, "Night, Dad." He turns off the light and shuts the door with another disbelieving glance. Stiles sighs, yawns for real and hopes for a dreamless sleep. 

 

True to his word, Sheriff Stilinski has them both up and nearly human by a shiny 4:00 am. Stiles is fairly sure he showered asleep. 

The lake system they're after comes into view after almost two hours of driving, and the excitement mounts in Stiles despite his very present exhaustion. It's been ages since he and his dad have had a whole day to goof off together. He's honestly looking forward to it.

They decide on a spot near the mouth of one lake end, hoping the fish traffic will be high this early. They set up camp with their chairs, tackle boxes, cooler of sodas and beer, and the smaller cooler of food and bait.

Wildlife is beginning to stir in the quiet, and the sun is showing itself over the tree line to the east. Birdsong is prevalent in every direction as the minutes pass. They cast their lines into the water, baited and ready, bobbing in the gentle current. 

Hours pass in gentle conversation, mild topics of work and friends. Stiles manages to catch a decent-sized pike, but tosses it back. His dad always manages to bring in a real fiend, every time. His dad catches a handful of smaller fish and a few really good ones, and a catfish. After he tosses it back in, they decide to pause for lunch.

As they eat the sandwiches Stiles prepared, his dad looks at him critically over his ham and cheese with lettuce. "You ever going to mention whatever it is you want to talk to me about, or am I going to have to pull it out of you?" 

Stiles almost chokes on his PB and J. "Uh," he wheezes, then takes several gulps of iced tea. "Yeah, I was going to. Maybe a little gentler than that, though."

His dad smirks ruefully. "Your mom was the patient one."

Stiles nods, sort of laughs at that. She was, and some days she really had to be. "Yeah, okay," Stiles says with a big sigh, "I'm just going to explain everything to you chronologically, from the beginning, and I want you to super please have an open mind and a closed mouth until I finish."

The sheriff's eyebrows rise, but he still says, "Okay."

So, Stiles tells him everything. He leaves out as much detail about the fights, because he dad does not need to know some of the shit he's gone through. But he tells him all the plot points, and when he's finished just after the short topic of "now I'm a wolf pack magician that protects everyone in the town with magic from evil shit", he thinks he forgot how to breathe. 

His father's face is a stony mask. "That," he murmurs after a long moment of silence, "is a long time of lies, Stiles."

Stiles nods in agreement. "And I'm willing to put up with whatever punishment you've got in mind, except leaving the pack." He grimaces at the thought, and even though he knew it was safer, he still lied for a long time to the most important person in his life. He deserves it.

"Werewolves," his dad says numbly. "Christ, I thought Hale was running a damn gang." He laughs. "I'm not sure I even know the difference."

Stiles stays quiet, with effort. It won't help his situation to snap at his dad, even though that was so narrow-minded to say that he wants to smack that sentence from existence. 

His dad sighs. "There's no talking you out of staying there?"

"I'm as much a part of this as they are," Stiles tells him. "I was meant to do this, Dad. This gives me... what I haven't had in a long time." He pauses, wondering if he should mention what Deaton told him. That his spark was likely genetic. "It gives me a connection to Mom."

Abruptly his dad is angry. "Leave your mom out of this," he bites out. 

The words sting, and Stiles has nothing to say anyway. He closes the food cooler and picks up his rod, casting it back out into the water. After a moment, there's a second bobber next to his.

 

Once they're back in decent cell range late that afternoon, his phone blows up with delayed texts from Scott. Confused, he reads through them from the beginning.

_hey so idk how to even say this but i think derek is afraid of u?_

_yeah ok hes definitely afraid of u_

_were at the meeting right now and he is warning us to be careful around you when were alone with u_

_no one is taking his seriously of course but wth hes acting like youre the wild animal lol_

_honestly though hes kinda freaking us out get home soon plz_

Pain stabs Stiles' chest, but he sends back, _confusion lvl 10. what the fuck is wrong with derek lately?_

He keeps his breathing normal until they're home and everything is put away in the shed. Then he goes upstairs under the pretence of a nap, and hides under his covers like a child. 

How could Derek honestly not trust him? They've been fighting together for years. Graduation is around the corner. They've saved each other's lives multiple times. And there had been a few moments of heady eye contact, tensely charged moments in time where it really was just them in the world, but it's like Derek wasn't there for those. Despite Stiles knowing that Derek is attracted to him, Derek stays as far away from him as he can on purpose, because he doesn't want to want Stiles. Which means it's purely physical for him. Which it is not for Stiles.

He swallows the sound that wants to crawl out, a pathetic moan of sadness. He roils in despair in silence, and as he comes up from the depths of his own misery, he tells himself that Derek is a lost cause as a lover, but he's still a good Alpha, a good friend. When he isn't being a shallow slug. 

Stiles needs to get over Derek, because Derek is apparently never going to want to love Stiles. 

As soon as he has the thought, he feels his heart break. He's accepted it, but now he has to live with it.

 

The text comes in as he's editing his final draft for his history paper.

_come over, we need to talk_

No scarier words exist, in Stiles' opinion. But Stiles remembers his promise to himself, and proximity is the last thing he wants with Derek right now.

_can't. sorry._

Stiles wants to say yes, but he can't. He knows he can't. This is better. Derek will stop treating him like a mangy cat who puked in his shoes, and Stiles... Stiles doesn't know what he'll feel like. 

He thinks that's it when there's no response back, that Derek dropped it, but then his window slides open and Stiles has a mild heart attack while beginning to cast a sticky spell. He stops mid-word when he recognizes Derek.

"Has literally anyone introduced you to the concept of _knocking_?" Stiles snaps at him.

Derek half smiles, half smirks. That's his 'you made a funny but I'm not gonna laugh even though I think it's funny' face. Stiles really hates that he knows his facial expressions. 

Stiles sighs when he doesn't actually respond. "What do you want?"

"Why couldn't you come over? We do need to talk." Already Stiles can see Derek's discomfort rising as he spends more time near Stiles. The fact that he literally can't stand to be near Stiles--because of his magic or because of him--makes his chest ache.

 

Stiles sits down heavily on his bed. "We don't need to talk. I understand everything perfectly fine." He doesn't stop the bitterness from leaking into his words.

Derek seems taken aback slightly. "You do."

"Yes. So you didn't have to come all the way here to tell me to stay away from you. Got it, ten-four, whatever. Should we get a legal restraining order, just in case? Minimum ten feet?" Stiles covers his face with his hands, pushing back every single emotion behind them. "God. Like it hasn't been obvious."

Stiles almost wishes he could see Derek's face when he starts to lie, "I didn't..." Just to see if a werewolf catches their own lie, if it's harder that way. Derek doesn't finish his sentence anyway.

"Exactly," Stiles says, then sighs. "I don't hold it against you or anything. Just... my magic protects us. All of us, including you. Excluding me just makes the magic harder to control. Do you understand?" Now Stiles looks at him, and he's amazed to see real guilt on his beautiful stubbed face.

"That includes warning the others off of spending time alone with me," Stiles adds, not hiding his hurt at that. He doesn't elaborate, but he can't bear to look at Derek, so he turns away again. "If you're worried about me getting out of control, don't worry. I respect it. I'm only advancing when Deaton advises me to. He's properly instilled in me the fear of magic gone awry."

"Good," Derek snaps, and there's the defensive side Stiles has been waiting for. "Magic kills people as much as it saves them."

Stiles smiles before he can stop himself. He half-turns back to Derek, almost unconsciously. "That's what Deaton said. And I know."

Derek doesn't respond, and the silence stretches between them. Stiles can feel his fingers twitching the longer he sits still, the more he feels Derek looking at him. Abruptly he stands. "If that's all..." Stiles says pointedly, walking to his homework on his desk. When he turns around, Derek is gone, and he can breathe again.

 

Sunday is spent with Scott, Isaac and Boyd in a Mario Party gaming session that carries on most of the day. They end up ordering out and yelling obscenities with full mouths and at the end of the day Stiles is left with a disaster of a rec room, but he's happy and fully charged, so he gathers his supplies--a second backpack, warded from theft and snooping, filled to the brim with all of his magical necessities--and tells his dad he's going for a short hike in the woods before the sun sets.

The summer solstice is a few days away, so Stiles decides to find a decent harvest chant or summertime-appropriate spell. He settles on a growth booster for the forest system, a simple chorus chant with two alternating verses. Stiles settles in the dirt and begins preparing his circle.

When he's satisfied with the lines in the dirt, he places the specified herbs at the circle points and, once he double-checks for no more steps, settles his mind and begins humming.

All magic has a melody, every spell a tune. Most spell casters prefer to sing or speak-sing their spells, for better memory and better flow. Stiles doesn't prefer one or the other, but summer is a time of life and levity, so he sings the spell as best he can.

The words start to thrum in his skin after completing half of the first chorus, and already he can feel the forest around him respond. He sings to the forest, tells it a story of life and wonder and joy. It calls back to him in a chatter of birds and creatures and brushing leaves, amplifying his song into a crescendo. 

Near the peak of the spell, Stiles feels nearby the presence of several wildlife, seeking him out as he bolsters their home. He crows out the chorus again, lilting the words off his tongue in a coalescence of natural growth that seems to seep into the soil directly from his mouth. A squirrel darts across his lap once, twice, again and again, in a complete fever pitch with the energy rolling off of him. 

For the final verse repetition, Stiles leans forward and claws his hands into the dirt in the centre of his circle, singing the words to the roots and the worms and every microorganism in the soil itself. He feels the air come alive as his last word rings alone in the silence; every animal in the forest is quiet, calmed to a total peace. Then in another moment, the forest--the very trees above him--burst into life with movement from every creature. A fawn sprints past him on its way to wherever it needs to go, and it keeps kicking its back legs excessively, as if the energy within it can't be contained by simply running. The mother follows a second after, similarly excited. 

Stiles packs his backpack in the cacophony of his handiwork, listening to the forest live around him. He starts the walk back to his house and is surprised when he gets a text from Scott.

_so i know we were literally just hanging out but i am like so jazzed up_

_do you wanna play some lacrosse? lets see if everyone wants to play lacrosse_

Laughing uproariously, Stiles replies in the affirmative. By the time he gets home, Scott has orchestrated an impromptu game at Derek's. He grabs his lacrosse gear and heads out with a spring in his step. Magic pumps through his veins, giving him heightened emotions and senses. That was one of the best chants he's ever done.

Derek's yard is alive with activity. The wolves are chasing each other around the house and surrounding land in beta form, having an excess of fun. Even the humans present--everyone beat him here of course--look in good spirits. Derek, standing on the porch and leaning on the railing with his forearms, has a smile on his face. 

Cautiously, Stiles approaches him. They're both silent until Derek asks quietly, "Did you do this?"

Stiles analyzes the tone, but he hears only curiosity, so he replies with a pleasant smile, "Yeah. I was thinking the forest had had enough negativity in its lifetime. It needed a good pick-me-up."

"It did," Derek agrees, and looks sideways at Stiles. 

Stiles forces himself not to react. He smiles and nods, then turns away to watch the wolves, despite knowing Derek is still looking at him. 

Derek makes an irritated noise, and Stiles turns back. "Why do you do that?" he asks roughly.

Bewildered, Stiles returns, "Do what?"

"Look away when I look at you," Derek says, his mouth a tight line.

Stiles shakes his head. "You don't like it when I look at you."

"Says who?" Derek asks, halfway to a snarl.

"Firstly," Stiles says tensely, "watch your tone. I didn't put half my energy into the forest and everything in the area for you to kill my mood. Secondly, you don't get to glare at me for two years every time I make advances on you and then suddenly ask why I think you don't like it when I look your way. God." Stiles rubs his forehead, leaning forward onto the railing. "And you certainly don't get to act like I'm victimizing you."

Derek sighs. "Stiles..." But he doesn't finish.

"One of these days, you're going to finish one of your open-ended sentences that are supposed to be condoling or soothing. But today is not that day, and they're definitely wasted on me, so just drop it. I get it. Let's just not talk about it." Stiles digs his nails into the wood until he's sure he'll make marks.

Scott chooses that moment to pop up from around the house. "Do you guys wanna play?" 

They play past the point of everyone being more mud than person, and with nothing but grins to show for it. The sun warms their backs until it dips below the tree line, and another hour passes before the humans, with eyesight weakest in the dark, call it quits. 

Stiles leaves first, before the option of a Stiles-excluded cuddle puddle can be given. 

 

The next morning, Stiles rolls over to slap his snooze button and the first thing he thinks is, I'm going to school for the first time since sophomore year without hoping that today is the day Derek admits he likes me. 

His day doesn't really get better from there. 

Stiles is soon mentally exhausted by constantly reminding himself he is not allowed to think about Derek anymore. He was unaware how often he daydreamed about him until they started hurting. It gets bad enough that Scott asks if he's okay, if he should take him home. He denies that anything is wrong, and doesn't even flinch when he sees Scott hear the lie. Scott frowns, but drops it for the moment.

Isaac looks at him weirdly over the cafeteria tables, a bite of mystery pasta halfway to his closed mouth. "Why do you smell sad?"

Stiles snorts. "Since there's a chem final coming up that may or may not end my life," he jokes, but this time the deflection doesn't work. Now the entire table is looking at him. 

"You do smell sad," Scott says after a couple sniffs. 

Stiles points accusing fingers at the werewolves. "We have had discussions about this. Stop using your factual sniffers to guilt me into spilling things. It will eventually stop working."

"But not today," Boyd says lightly.

Sighing, Stiles confesses grumpily, "I know why Derek has been a douche lately."

"And?" Lydia asks. "What's going on?"

"I've loved Derek for two years and he's finally decided to stop brushing me off and definitively tell me to fuck off instead," Stiles says tonelessly. "And all of a sudden, after we get that horrifically painful conversation out of the way, he starts acting all buddy-buddy. Like he didn't humiliate me and curb stomp my heart."

"Who the hell uses 'curb stomp' anymore," Erica mutters.

Allison shoots her a look. "Stiles, that's awful. Are you sure Derek didn't honestly know you liked him?"

Stiles narrows his eyes at her, daring her to doubt. "Have I been subtle, Allison?"

Just like that, his point's proven by the look on her face. He really hasn't been subtle. 

"So Derek's an asshole," Scott says reasonably. "We all knew this already. Why is this news?"

Lydia groans, as if the question is absurd. "Because it's Stiles."

"I'm confused, why is that any different than Derek being regular asshole?" Scott asks.

"Because he loves Stiles!" Allison says, as if it's obvious.

Silence drops on the table very suddenly. Stiles breaks it. "No he doesn't," he states. He knows Derek doesn't feel like that about him. This point was driven home well, to the brink of cruelty.

"How do you know?" Lydia asks pertly. "How do you know he isn't martyring his happiness with you because he thinks you're too young, too good for him?"

"That's insane," Stiles huffs at her, even as he contemplates how very right she could be. He would do something as stupid as that. Derek would do it, if he thought Stiles could get someone better than him. But that's insane, because no one is better than Derek.

"Is it," Lydia murmurs, unimpressed with his response. Her eyes tell him she's not wrong and she knows it. What has Derek told her in confidence? Vaguely Stiles remembers Lydia telling him about the odd night she would get the Alpha to herself, what they did. She said the nights were full of talking and little else. Stiles had assumed she meant herself.

"If he's convicted enough to ruin our chances, what can I say to stop him?" Stiles grouches. "It's not like he doesn't already know I love him, want to be with him. That's kind of why I'm in this mess."

Scott frowns deeply. "This whole conversation is creeping me out."

Stiles ignores that in the interest of not getting mad at Scott, and says, "He's a big boy. He can make his own decisions."

Lydia puts her water bottle down hard on the table, leveling a mean stare at Stiles. "And you'll both have to live with the consequences of them."

 

Stiles doesn't see Derek until the next weekend, claiming a stomach ache for the typical pack meet at the end of that week. He doesn't dare face Derek--his feelings still aren't aligned from their disarrangement over the week. The more Stiles told himself not to think about Derek, the more his chest ached, and his body yearned for a hug, a body curved next to his in a bed, a hip touching his on the couch in front of a movie, dinner with him and his dad every Sunday. He had dreams where they were dating, and he ached for it to be real. 

Is this heartbreak? he thinks to himself numbly. How do I survive it?

This weekend's pack meeting consists of a movie night instead of the planned soccer game, with the forecast saying a storm is on its way. Derek takes his usual chair, and Stiles makes sure to position himself in a way that prevents him from looking at Derek without turning significantly. He also sits as far away from him as possible. He's handling this all so well, obviously.

Allison gives him a look as she sits down next to him, seeing what he's done and knowing why. She picks his movie pick too when they vote, and with Erica's vote too, it wins over the Notebook and Tangled. 

About halfway through The A-Team, Stiles can feel Derek watching him. He ignores it the best he can until he disappears into the bathroom, necessary after the three sodas he's had. He can feel the mild sugar high in the shake of his hands. He refuses to believe it's anything else. 

When he exits the bathroom, Derek is there, but he's not alone. Lydia stands at his side, her arms crossed and her face blazing a neon sign that says 'PISSED OFF'.

"Uh," falls out of Stiles' mouth, and they both look at him. Lydia turns away after a final look at Derek, and then he's alone with Derek in the hallway.

"Hi," Stiles says after an awkward pause. Derek looks even more uncomfortable than him. What a great sign, something fun must be ahead.

"Enjoying the movie?" Derek asks politely, if stiffly. Stiles looks at him until, amazingly, Derek looks away. He doesn't bother answering, and tries to pass around Derek.

Derek grabs his shoulder as he passes, pushes him against the wall and keeps him there. It's not a bruising impact, but it's rough, a little uncontrolled. Stiles has to remind himself to be careful; Derek might not be all human right now.

"The movie is fine," Stiles finally answers, hoping it will grant his release. 

Derek nods, like the answer is acceptable, like he isn't being incredibly fucking weird. Derek doesn't let go.

Stiles, unable to bear it, turns away from Derek's face. Seeing him and being this close reignites all the illegal yearnings in his heart. He holds fast on the cold truth of Derek's harsh words over the years to ground himself.

Derek's hand on his shoulder clenches, grips the fabric there tightly before quickly releasing it. Stiles feels the motion all the way to his toes.

"Stiles," he says quietly. "We really do need to talk."

It'll be a cold day in hell before that happens again. "You said your piece," Stiles reminds him, equally quiet. "If my puppy dog faces haven't gone away yet, you'll have to excuse them. It's harder getting over you than I thought." The words ache on their way out.

Stiles glances at Derek, and he sees in his face a myriad of emotions. The forefront of which is anger. Stiles shrugs off his hand and flees, plopping back down beside Allison and breathing deeply. The entire room know what's happened in the hall, but no one says anything. After a moment, Derek slinks back in and sits in his armchair. 

That night in bed, Stiles cries until he can't anymore, and then he sleeps. 

 

He doesn't see Derek anymore.

Stiles stops going to the pack meetings, preferring to spend time with his friends at his house or in school, which is near its close and becoming equal parts lax and stressful during exam time. 

After his last exam, Stiles feels the weight sink off his shoulders, and the grief of losing Derek sets in in its place. He ignores it to the best of his ability, and whenever he thinks of him, he recites a long spell in his head.

The Solstice has come and gone, and Stiles feels the forest around Beacon Hills thriving. There have been lots of wild predator sightings, higher activity in the local game and pests. His chant worked even better than he hoped.

At breakfast the morning of the last day of school, Stiles pokes his eggs and turkey bacon with mild enthusiasm. His dad notices.

"Something up?" the sheriff asks, eyeing his son.

Stiles shrugs. "Average teenager stuff is being lame lately, magical hippie stuff has been great, the two don't really help each other." He's unsure if he wants to mention he's heartsick to his dad, unsure how he'll take all of the circumstances involving the other person.

Thankfully, his dad offers no sage and embarrassing advice. "Hope you feel better, kiddo," he says with a comforting small smile before he returns to his breakfast. Stiles knows if he wanted, he could confide in his dad and everything would be okay. He just doesn't have the nerve yet.

The school day consists of lax periods with all exams completed by the day before, full of socializing and some games that the teachers try to get everyone to play. Stiles can't manage to get his excitement past regular levels, and it still seems faked. The school day is fun, but Stiles can't remember any details as he walks to his Jeep at the end of it.

He stops short. Derek is leaning on the passenger side of his Jeep, the Camaro nowhere to be found. Unsure, Stiles continues walking to the driver's side and unlocks his door, getting in without looking to his right, where he knows danger waits.

"You can't ignore me forever, Stiles," Derek says tiredly through the cracked open window. The feeling behind the statement seems unfitting for how Derek seemed the last time he saw him. Did something happen? 

"I've had enough of your conversations to last a life time," Stiles chokes out, turning the ignition to drown out Derek's response. By Derek's face, Stiles knows he's less than impressed at being ignored in such close range.

"Stiles!" Derek barks as he guns the engine and drives away. He takes the back way out of the parking lot that empties into the reserve, but he knows the back roads through here like the back of his hand, and he's turning out of the reserve back towards home in no time.

His hands have stopped shaking by the time he turns his car off in the driveway. Unbelievably, Derek is waiting on the porch with his arms crossed, looking peeved. He's beautiful.

Stiles wagers the merits of hiding at Scott's until Derek decides he's not worth torturing. 

"I can find you wherever you go, Stiles," Derek sighs, and sits down on the steps like an older man. 

Confused for more than one reason, Stiles slowly gets out of the Jeep and advances on Derek. When he makes no motion against it, Stiles sits on the far end of the step. 

"What do you want?" Stiles asks, cautious. 

"That's a bit of a double-edged sword," Derek growls, almost to himself. Then he sighs again. "I don't want what I thought I wanted, for a long time."

When that appears to be the only answer he's going to get, Stiles stands and goes to the front door. "I'm not playing twenty questions, Derek. Say what you want to say or get the hell off my porch."

Looking slightly hunted, Derek stands and takes a couple steps in Stiles' direction. "I thought I wanted you to have a chance for a family that neither of us had, for most of our lives. I thought I wanted that for me, too. But it's taken you giving up on me to show me that I want that still, but I don't want it unless it's with you."

Stiles' jaw drops., then his mind reels with the idea of growing old with this beautiful, grouchy man. His heart flips. He pictures a girl with his dark hair, a boy with his pretty eyes. Stiles brings his hands to his mouth and sits down, hard. 

"Oh, my god," he whispers, almost desperately. Then, "You'd make the cutest little kids, though."

Derek does something amazing; he laughs. "You would too."

Stiles gathers the pieces of himself and jigsaws them back together, taking deep breaths and doing his mental exercises to focus. When he opens his eyes, Derek's looking at him with an entirely new expression. Wonder.

"Are you going to kiss me, or what?" Stiles asks as he stands. "Make this shit official."

Derek faux-grimaces. "How romantic." But he quickly smiles, a familiar smile. Then he takes the necessary steps, bends, and his lips touch Stiles'.


	2. Derek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek likes to think of himself as a simple creature, with the most basic of needs. Food, rest, pack, morning run, hot showers. He's never needed an excess of things, materially, and he's never wanted anything beyond the simple things like jam on his toast in the mornings. 
> 
> Stiles changes that and for a long time, Derek isn't sure where that leaves him.

Derek glances up from his book to see the pack straggle in through the front door in a clamour of activity. Scott, Isaac, Jackson and Stiles are still wearing their lacrosse gear.

As soon as the teenagers are past the threshold, there's a mad dash for the bathroom, probably to shower off the filth of sport that they're still covered in. Derek watches with some amusement as Jackson and Scott manage to get to the bathrooms first, leaving Isaac and Stiles pouting. Isaac gravitates to the kitchen, and Stiles hesitates in the doorway of the living room.

Derek purposely looks back down to his book.

"Whatcha reading?" comes to bother him anyway, despite his blatant ignorance of the herd of people that just entered his house. Erica lounges on the futon and does something on her phone. Boyd, Lydia and Allison follow Isaac to the kitchen. 

Wordlessly Derek holds up the book to show the cover, then resumes reading. 

"Cool," Stiles says. "Haven't read that one. What's it about?" 

Derek hears the uptick of Stiles' heart, wonders why he'd lie. But then it's obvious. To talk to Derek, to get Derek talking. 

This has become a problem, Derek thinks to himself as he doesn't answer Stiles. He can't encourage this kind of thing, or else the pack will think he favours Stiles, since he's always trying to get Derek's attention. And of course, Derek doesn't like Stiles, so there's that. 

Right. 

Derek has found out before that being a werewolf does not make it any easier to lie to himself. But at least he's better at lying to others. 

Seeing that Derek has refused to respond further, Stiles nods to himself, as if he were expecting it. A waft of sadness hits Derek from Stiles' direction, and he doesn't react outwardly. Inwardly, he cringes. Erica glances up at the smell and gives Derek a mean look when she determines its origin. 

Stiles leaves the room, and Derek takes a deep breath.

 

Derek stops short, trowel in hand as he's bent over his tomatoes. A frisson travels down his spine, sending a dark tingle through his limbs. He knows the sensation for what it is instantly. Someone in Beacon Hills is using magic. 

Derek's mind jumps to the worst conclusions in a heartbeat, of himself at a younger age, and his family home ablaze. The smell of the fire was identical to what he feels now, a primal energy that consumed his life in one fell swoop. Reluctantly, he admits that doesn't feel the savage bloodlust of that night now, and it's an entirely different situation, but it's one that gets his back up nonetheless.

He shudders. Magic. 

Derek packs up his gardening things back in the shed and then gets his phone out, calling each pack member to come here for an emergency meeting. Most text him back if they don't pick up--he notes the time belatedly, most of them are still in class--but Boyd and Isaac both answer and say they'll be home right away. 

Derek showers off the morning's grime, and he allows his mind to unfurl. He soothes the ache behind his eyes after standing under the hot spray for a wonderfully long time, and after his headache is gone and his tensity reduced, he can think more clearly.

He's come across magic users before, some with good outcomes. Others... not. But he supposes not every mage is bad news. He just knows what the consequences are of spellwork with the worst intentions. He finds it hard to think without bias on the situation, and he doesn't feel like the Alpha he knows he should be.

The water shuts off, and he's back in the real world again. Derek dresses in a white henley and his comfiest pair of jeans before coming downstairs. He smells Isaac and Boyd before he sees them. They ran hard to get here quickly. 

"Take it easy," Derek says before either of them can get too excited. "This is just a precaution, but I felt something in the area and we need to be careful until we know who and what it is. It shouldn't be a big threat. It wasn't very strong; no more than one of them."

Derek watches the relief go across their faces and feels his own nerves soothe. He's overreacting. Everything will be fine.

The teenagers get a start on their homework before the rest of the pack arrives, but the way they clamour to pack everything away when the first person arrives (Erica) hints that they didn't get much work done. 

Derek undoes Erica's panic before it can reach any higher. She hugs him quickly when he's finished talking, then seems embarrassed at the show of emotion and flees the room. Boyd follows her out after a few minutes.

Scott and Stiles arrive next, soon after Erica and Boyd come back downstairs. Derek feels his entire body tense as he gets a strong sensation of magic again. He sniffs the air surreptitiously but finds nothing, just teenage boy and the average handful of scents associated with it. He ignores the extra smells from Stiles as if they're not there.

Lydia and Jackson aren't long behind them. The silence after they arrive is palpable, waiting on the last member to get there. Derek picks out Allison as soon as she gets within his substantial range of hearing.

Then something strange happens. Stiles says where she is, exactly, to the room at large. Almost in an absent-minded way. But the statement coils in Derek's gut. He had received no message from Allison, telling him where she was. How did he know?

"How do you know that?" Derek asks sharply, catching Stiles' eyes and holding them across the room.

The look on Stiles' face is one that Derek is unused to being pointed at him--contempt. "Magic," Stiles nearly snarls at him with the venom in the one word.

Derek feels the tension roll across his body like a coiled spring. He almost doesn't have the control to stop from shifting at all, though he thinks his eyes may have changed colour for a moment. What an inconceivably coincidental response. Could Stiles...?

Allison shows up before he can grill Stiles, so he's left no choice but to explain why they're all there. Once he's finished, the questions don't stop. And when they do, Derek doesn't have the answers he wanted.

 

The hours after Stiles' not-secret comes out, Derek... doesn't take it well. He may have earned the nasty looks he got from his pack that Friday night when he ostracized Stiles. He wasn't exactly subtle about his distaste for Stiles' talents. He chastises himself after every harsh comment, every closed door. He hates himself every time he glowers at Stiles, because he can see it now. Just slightly, if he looks hard, he can see the swirling mass around the boy, barely contained by him, but in no way dangerous. The energy itself is the bluest blue, pure to the core. Not the blackness that he tries to never think of.

Kate was different, from the first moment he saw her. She had a ripeness about her, an air of knowing how powerful she was and being able to scare anyone in the world with it. Before he knew her character, Derek thought it was just self-confidence. Afterwards, Derek knows it for the greed and power hunger that it really was.

She burned down his home with almost all his family inside. Kate stood in the flames on the porch his father built, untouched by the marring combustion, and she laughed at what she had done.

Derek knows that Stiles isn't Kate, is nowhere near what kind of person she was. But the magic inside them both was once the same. 

Saturday... Saturday is different. With Stiles gone from the county entirely, Derek finally notices what he hadn't. The atmosphere of the entire town is slightly off-key. There's a hidden vibrance that's now lacking in the air, in the body of it all. 

He's barely had time to eat his toast before Erica is barrelling downstairs with fury all over her face.

"You had better explain why the hell Stiles got the shittiest treatment ever yesterday," she begins hotly, "because I am not standing for the crap you pulled yesterday."

Derek sighs. "It... I know I treated him badly. I'll apologize. But his... crush on me has to stop. I can't take any more of his mooning."

Erica throws her hands up. "Oh my god," she says to the ceiling. "Save me from boys. Just save me." Then she looks at Derek narrowly. "That is not why you did that yesterday, but sure, let's talk about how you are literally the worst human being ever for how you're treating Stiles in general, not just yesterday."

Erica plops into a bar stool, motioning for Derek to do the same. Warily, he does. "I gather you're trying to tell me that you don't like Stiles and that he just has a crush and he'll get over you in a snap and you'll be friends. Right?"

Derek frowns. "Don't sound so condescending, it's true."

"Oh, my god. What the hell is in your head? Dirt?" She punches his arm, hard. "Stiles loves you. Loves you. He had a crush two years ago. But now it's love. That's kind of how this works."

Derek is shaking his head before she finishes. "No," he says firmly, "he doesn't--"

Erica snarls, honestly snarls at him, and his mouth shuts. "I will beat you half to death, don't think I won't." She pauses, then continues more gently. "Stiles isn't Kate, but I'm sure you know that. Stiles will never become Kate though. I think that's the chunk you're having issues with." Erica stands, walks to the fridge and grabs a protein shake. "And just for the record, Stiles wouldn't have gone this long without an answer if you hadn't given him a reason to." 

She leaves the room, and Derek is alone with his thoughts.

 

Later that day, he calls a meeting for everyone excluding Stiles.

"We need to be careful now," he tells the room without preamble. "Especially around Stiles. Magic users can be unstable, and we have to react accordingly if he ever gets... out of hand." The words ache on the way out. What is wrong with him?

Lydia raises both eyebrows. "Unstable? Like werewolves?" she asks, locking her eyes with Derek's accusingly. He hasn't even started and he's losing ground.

"Werewolves are unstable, yes, but not like this. We need to be careful around him. He will not be different, but he will have risks. If he has a bad day, it could be more disastrous than any of us."

Jackson scoffs. "This is Stilinski we're talking about here, let's be realistic. He's as frightening as a box of kittens."

"Be serious or get out," Derek barks, and the room drops into silence. "I'm not here to lecture you on the bad witches and wizards. I'm here to let you know the danger of an unrestricted magic user is a very real one."

"What makes you think he's unrestricted?" Scott asks hotly. "Deaton is with him every step of the way. He understands everything about what he's doing before he does it."

"Can you vouch that you've seen him spellcast? You've seen all the measures he takes?" Derek asks bluntly. 

Scott narrows his eyes at Derek. "No."

Derek smirks. "Then I don't see how that's a credible response." He addresses the room again. "I'm not saying jump him if he gets twitchy, but I'm saying be careful."

Boyd shakes his head and gets up, leaving the room. Derek balks, unused to such blatant disrespect.

"Derek," Lydia begins sweetly, "I don't want to tell you what you do and don't know," Derek knows he is completely going to hate what comes out of her mouth next, "but I think the only one in this room who doesn't understand the risks and concerns of Stiles and all his talents, is you." She stands, beckoning Jackson, and after a cursory glance of disdain at Derek once more, they both leave the house. 

Scott is looking at him weirdly. "Might wanna get your facts checked. The only one who knows anything about magic and Stiles is Stiles."

 

Once Derek knows he's well past the time that Stiles will have arrived home, he sends a quick text requesting he come over to talk. Stiles' response is surprising.

can't. sorry.

Quelling his anger, Derek paces his living room. What could Stiles be doing that Derek wouldn't be a priority? Then he stops. When did Derek assume he was a priority in Stiles' life? And why did it change?

Derek scoffs to himself. Yes, why did it change? It's not like Derek has been treating him poorly for years every time he wanted attention, turned him away every time he wanted to spend time alone, despite spending alone time with every other pack member. 

He sighs. He... needs to try to fix this.

Stiles' bedroom window sticks when he opens it, and his hackles rise when he sees Stiles start to cast a spell, but he sees Derek and immediately stops. That, there, tells him everything, tells him the idiot he is for suspecting anything malicious from Stiles. Erica was right. Stiles could never become Kate.

"Has literally anyone introduced you to the concept of knocking?" Stiles snaps at him, and Derek has some difficulty suppressing his smile.

Stiles sighs. "What do you want?"

Derek tries to behave normally, but his nervousness is increasing the longer he stands here with Stiles looking at him with hollow eyes. What happened? "Why couldn't you come over? We do need to talk."

Stiles looks at him, then away, as if he can't bear what he sees. "We don't need to talk. I understand everything perfectly fine." The words are bitter, cold.

Derek's surprise escapes him. "You do." Stiles knows why he came here? How?

"Yes. So you didn't have to come all the way here to tell me to stay away from you. Got it, ten-four, whatever. Should we get a legal restraining order, just in case? Minimum ten feet?" Shoulders slouched, Stiles puts his hands over his face in defeat. Derek's gut clenches. "God. Like it hasn't been obvious." It had been, but Derek hadn't wanted to think about how against this he was. It was just something he'd convinced himself was better for everyone.

Tongue in his throat, Derek begins, "I didn't..." But he's unsure how to say what it is he wants to say, and Stiles is pulling away so quickly, like an elastic. He's already gone. How can Derek get him to just listen?

"Exactly," Stiles says, sighing tiredly. Derek tries again, but no sound comes out. "I don't hold it against you or anything. Just... my magic protects us. All of us, including you. Excluding me just makes the magic harder to control. Do you understand?" Derek's gut seizes. 

Stiles looks up, and Derek's sure his guilt is written on his face. He never should've alienated Stiles. How could he think that would help everyone?

"That includes warning the others off of spending time alone with me," Stiles adds, hurt evident in his voice. Derek feels as if he's been slapped. He's made so many bad decisions in a row, how can he possibly fix them all? "If you're worried about me getting out of control, don't worry. I respect it. I'm only advancing when Deaton advises me to. He's properly instilled in me the fear of magic gone awry."

"Good," Derek says, too harshly. He winces internally. At least he knows Stiles is safe with it. He's more grateful than he thought he'd be. "Magic kills people as much as it saves them." The memories try to come back, but Derek pushes them aside.

Stiles smiles wryly. The sight flutters Derek's stomach. "That's what Deaton said. And I know." The way he looks talking about Deaton, about magic, makes Derek ashamed. 

Derek opens his mouth as Stiles turns away with finality, a clear dismissal. "If that's all," Stiles says, monotone. Whatever Derek was about to say dies on his tongue, and he doesn't look back on his way out the window, fleeing the house and bolting into the forest.

He's half-changed by the time he hits the tree line, a mournful howl wanting to rip its way out of his throat. Derek swallows it, swallows everything, and hopes they die in his gut. 

 

Stiles doesn't call him tomorrow, and Derek doesn't expect it. He hopes for it, because he's not about to call Stiles. He knows that Stiles isn't his number one fan. He lounges around the house, reading books and cooking fatty foods. He hates living with teenagers. Derek used to mope by doing adult shit like woodworking or jogging. Now he overeats and lazes around reading Harry Potter. When did he become a teenager again?

Derek's evening plans include homemade popcorn with a mountain of butter and bad movies. Halfway through salting and seasoning his popcorn, he gets a shivery feeling all the way through his body. He's slowly consumed with general contentment and an energy boost. The mood swing comes on so unexpectedly, for him, that he sits down at the breakfast bar, unsure what to do.

"What the hell just happened," Derek whispers to himself. He's startled by his phone buzzing in his pocket. It's a text from Scott. 

hey wanna have everybody over to play lacrosse? itll be awesome

Confused, he accepts. His popcorn disappears before they get there.

 

Derek doesn't know why, but he's shocked when he sees Stiles come with Scott. There was no assumption that he wouldn't be joining, but for whatever reason Derek had hoped he wouldn't. He's sure he's smiling from the bubbly feeling in his rib cage as he watches everyone arrive, but he can't seem to stop. He's just too happy.

Surprisingly, Stiles approaches him and joins him on the porch, leaning his hands on the railing. 

Something occurs to Derek. Did Stiles...? "Did you do this?" he asks in wonder. He's very sure he's not the only one feeling this way.

Stiles replies kindly, smiling. He says something about the treatment being necessary, the forest needing it, but Derek doesn't filter it in for several moments. He's enthralled by the look on Stiles' face, the serene peace that composes his features. Belatedly Derek replies, agreeing with him. 

Stiles seems uncomfortable by his scrutiny, and looks away. Derek can't help but make a noise of frustration, saying, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Stiles replies with confusion, looking back. 

"Look away when I look at you," Derek mutters, covering the hurt with bad temper.

Stiles makes a face. "You don't like when I look at you." The words are small, if irritated. 

"Says who?" Derek tries not to growl, thinking of who would throw him under the bus. 

Stiles' face changes. "Firstly," Stiles begins tensely, "watch your tone. I didn't put half my energy into the forest and everything in the area for you to kill my mood." His eyebrows tilt, making his expression morose. "Secondly, you don't get to glare at me for two years every time I make advances on you and then suddenly ask why I think you don't like it when I look your way. God." Stiles leans forward onto the railing, rubbing his face tiredly "And you certainly don't get to act like I'm victimizing you."

"Stiles," Derek starts, urging himself to say the words, anything, something to make Stiles see how much Derek cares. But the sentences in his mind don't make it out, and Stiles is turning away, so his chance is lost.

Stiles sighs. "One of these days, you're going to finish one of your open-ended sentences that are supposed to be condoling or soothing. But today is not that day, and they're definitely wasted on me, so just drop it. I get it. Let's just not talk about it." 

Derek watches Stiles close himself off, and he hates himself for not being able to say what both of them want to hear. He faces the yard, clenching his hands hard enough that he can feel his bones shifting, and when it starts to hurt he relents. He deserves a broken hand. Derek deserves a lot of things, not all of them good.

Scott appears around the corner, asking them to come join the game that's beginning, and the rest of the evening is spent in mud and laughter and cheap shots. 

 

Derek doesn't see Stiles for over a week. He hears the lie when he calls Scott to tell him he won't make that weekend's movie night due to a stomach bug, and tries not to react. Everyone gives him pitying looks anyway.

Lydia catches him at the pantry when they pause for bathroom breaks and snack refills. "What in the hell are you doing?"

Grumpily Derek shuts the pantry door, Goldfish in hand. "I tried to tell him a bunch of times. I can't seem to get the words out."

Sighing, Lydia pats him on the arm. "It's hard to get in a word with him, we are all aware. But he's close to sure that you do not care about him, and you're running out of time to fix it. He won't be here forever. He got accepted to Berkeley, Derek, and plenty of other schools that are nowhere near here." Her eyes find Derek's, hold him. "You don't have the luxury of finding the right words anymore. He needs to know before he really does give up on you."

Derek nods mutely, his mouth a shaky line. The idea of losing Stiles... It would be a hard pill to swallow, and Derek isn't sure he would come out of it unscathed. He can't handle many more scars. 

"I'll try again, next pack night," Derek confirms to her, and Lydia rewards him with a beatific smile.

 

The next weekend, the pack opts for another movie night instead of a night out to the diner for supper or something similarly outgoing. Derek pretends it isn't an orchestrated plan for him to corner Stiles somewhere in the house for a talk. He also pretends it wasn't orchestrated by the women of the pack, for his own sanity.

Stiles sits in the love seat with Allison and resolutely ignores Derek's glances, despite Derek doing his utmost to attract the young man's attention. He barely even turns his head to Derek's side of the room. When Stiles gets up to use the bathroom, Derek jumps up after him, ignoring everyone's amused faces. 

Derek paces up and down the hallway, mulling over the words he ought to say in his head. He should be as open as possible, say as much as he can. Stiles is a talker as much as he is a doer. Words will work for him. But Derek has to be sincere, too. He has to show he means it. He has to emote properly, not actively stop himself like he's so used to doing. 

Sighing, he leans against the wall and tips his head back. The ceiling doesn't reveal any cosmic shortcuts to a healthy relationship, either. 

Lydia finds him there, and they both hear the toilet flush. "What are you going to say?" she asks him, and Derek freezes, unsure.

"I wasn't decided on any specific phrase," he hedges, and Lydia fixes him with a cold stare. 

"This is not something where you can just wing it," she hisses. "You need to know what you're going to say." The door opens and Lydia gives him a final passing glare before departing. Derek studies Stiles, and his chest clenches. 

Stiles does not look happy to see him. In fact, he looks impressively distressed. His forehead is wrinkled with distaste. "Hi," Stiles says, evidently shocked. 

Derek tries his best to hold his gaze. "Enjoying the movie?" he asks in what he hopes is a nice tone, and not the nervous wreck he feels he is. 

Stiles looks at him so long with such a confusing expression that Derek has to look away. As soon as he does, Stiles tries to leave. Without thinking Derek grabs his shoulder and shoves until he meets the solidity of the wall. He holds him there, dismayed. What does he do now? He's back to square one, unable to express himself. Resorting to manhandling to get his point across. 

"The movie's fine," Stiles says stiffly, as the silence stretches. Derek nods at the answer, like the movie even matters. He takes in Stiles' features like a drowning man. Stiles looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. 

Finally Stiles turns his face away, looking back to the other room, where the pack and ignorance lie. "Stiles," Derek begins quietly, "we really do need to talk." He puts as much urgency in his voice as he can. He tries to let his desperation show. 

"You said your piece," Stiles replies, almost silent. "If my puppy dog faces haven't gone away yet, you'll have to excuse them. It's harder getting over you than I thought." He shrugs off Derek's hand and disappears back the way they came. Derek lets him go, because it's obvious that he was not soon enough to salvage what he lost. 

The movie ends, and Derek says goodbye to everyone with a small smile on his face. When everyone except Isaac is gone, the facade drops and Derek locks himself in his room. He doesn't cry, he hasn't for years, but he feels the despair grip him in familiar cold fingers, and he lets them swallow him whole. 

 

Stiles stops coming over, stops everything involving Derek. Derek lets him. He doesn't care anymore.

He still has pack nights with the rest of the pack, movie nights and social outings and all the things they'd done before Stiles decided he couldn't stand Derek anymore. No one really mentions him in Derek's presence, and when he's blocked in by all three women on the back deck one afternoon, all he tells them is that he was too late. Stiles won't listen to him because he thinks Derek is soullessly trying to ruin Stiles' life. He has nothing to worry about, of course. The only life Derek ruined is his own. 

He feels himself developing a depressive state, starting to slink back into what he's used to after a failure, a loss. Derek fights it with physical activity, lots of socializing, and overeating. He starts trying to forget why he's being forgotten.

One afternoon while Derek is watching old gameshows on his tablet, Erica bursts into the room from the kitchen saying, "Okay, get the hell up, you're making me depressed," and grabs his feet off the ottoman, yanking him bodily from his armchair and onto the floor.

Stunned, Derek looks up at her and replies intelligently, "The fuck?" 

Erica pulls him to his feet, takes his tablet and sets it aside, then puts her hands on his shoulders. She looks at him seriously. "You love Stiles." 

Derek feels his face contort, equal parts pain and shock. "Yes." 

Eyes narrowed, she continues, "Would you let him smother you both for what he thinks is what you want?" 

"No," he says with a sigh. 

Grabbing his hand, she pulls him from the house and towards the Camaro. "Really, because that's so funny, that's exactly what he's doing. God, I hate boys." She shoves him in the passenger side and gets behind the wheel. 

They're at the high school before he knows what Erica's doing. "Erica, this won't work, he won't talk to me."

She rolls her eyes. "Like you haven't perfected the art of stalking." She looks in her rear-view mirror. "Okay, Stilinski is behind us, about a hundred feet. If he sees me he'll think you were coerced into this and it wasn't your idea."

"I was," Derek points out, "and it wasn't."

Narrowing her eyes, she undoes his seat belt, opens his door across him, and shoves him out of the vehicle. "Go get him," she encourages, then slams the door shut. 

Derek gets to his feet, wiping the gravel off his ass, then makes the short trek to Stiles' Jeep, where he waits until he can hear his heartbeat singing erratically at the sight of Derek.

Stiles walks towards the vehicle, and every second that passes Derek fears he'll choke on the lump in his throat. But then Stiles walks past him, to the driver's side door, and gets in without a word. 

Derek's lungs release on a seized breath. "You can't ignore me forever, Stiles," he says, trying his hardest to get across how he feels by facial expression alone. The teenager replies waspishly, guns the engine before Derek can reply and drives away. "Stiles!" Derek barks after him without meaning to, at a loss for how badly this is going. He stands there in the parking lot and stares after the Jeep. 

"Wow, he really defines the word 'stubborn', doesn't he," Erica says as she approaches. 

Huffing, Derek strides back to the Camaro and gets in the driver's seat. "He doesn't even know the meaning of the word," he mutters to himself, barely waiting for Erica to join him. 

At the Stilinski house, he waits by himself on the porch and tries to formulate what to say. Erica had said before she left that it had to be honest, heartfelt and deep. Derek has no goddamn clue how to be heartfelt or deep. He barely knows how to be honest. 

Sighing, he thinks of the things he likes about Stiles. His humour, for sure. Derek laughs and smiles more when he's with Stiles, though he hides it all. His tenacity, his bravery, his selflessness... All things he's shown during their fights for Beacon Hills and the pack. Being human, he's more frail than over half of the pack, but being a mage trumps that by making him more powerful than most of the wolves, maybe even Derek. 

Stiles' powers aren't a problem, because they belong to Stiles. No one is better suited for a gift like his, Derek knows. Stiles will do--has already done--good things with it. 

When Stiles came onto him the first time, Derek was so surprised that he didn't even answer. Completely unsure if he wanted Stiles, Derek left the boy there without a response. That had been almost two years ago. Now, Derek knows he cares about Stiles. But he still doesn't know if he deserves him. 

The sound of the Jeep turning at the corner brings Derek to the present, and he's focused entirely on the vehicle as it parks in the driveway. Derek watches Stiles debate leaving his car, wondering whether or not Derek can be waited out.

"I can find you wherever you go, Stiles," Derek says, loudly but with no inflection. He's so tired. He sits on the step beneath him, rubbing a hand across his brow. 

After a few moments, Stiles leaves the Jeep and approaches slowly. "What do you want?" he asks, taking a seat at the other end of the step. Every move he makes is riddled with caution. 

Derek scoffs before he's given himself permission. That is still up for debate, but if Derek is here and trying to talk to Stiles then it isn't so undecided anymore. "That's a bit of a double-edged sword," he says, trying for mirth but it comes out bitter instead. He tries to find the words to keep going, to tell Stiles how he feels, why he said and did hurtful things for the past two years to deter Stiles from him. "I don't want what I thought I wanted, for a long time." But like every chance he gets, they're not good enough, and Derek is out of time again. 

Stiles stands and goes to his front door. "I'm not playing twenty questions, Derek," he says with irritation. "Say what you want to say or get the hell off my porch." 

Derek swallows down the nervousness rampant in his chest, standing and advancing a few steps towards Stiles. "I thought I wanted you to have a chance for a family," he begins, and hopes that he looks genuine, sounds heartfelt, because he won't get anymore chances to say what needs saying. "A family that neither of us had, for most of our lives. I thought I wanted that for me, too." Derek tries to smile, but he thinks it just turns out as a grimace. "But... it's taken you giving up on me to show me that I want that still, but I don't want it unless it's with you."

Breathlessly Derek waits, until Stiles abruptly covers his mouth with his hands and drops to his butt on the porch, seemingly at a loss. Still Derek waits, until Stiles says with awe, "You'd make the cutest little kids though," and looks at Derek with his heart in his eyes. 

The smile Derek gives him feels real, feels good. Blissfully Derek laughs at Stiles' expression of total shock. "You would too." 

Stiles takes a moment to gather himself, then he stands. "Are you going to kiss me or what? Make this shit official," he says, grinning. His ears are red. Derek loves him. 

Making a face, Derek replies, "How romantic," but he bends and kisses Stiles all the same. The taste of his smile is worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any small inconsistencies or mistakes I may have missed. Thanks for reading! c:


End file.
